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Thursday, December 8, 2016

Hope this finds you nice and snuggled in, ideally next to the fire place, your skis, snowshoes or fat bike now at rest after the days adventure.

2 years ago, having just purchased a fat bike I decided, with the help and advice of many, to head to Park Falls Wisconsin and test myself against The Tuscobia 150. Now here I sit, typing to you from a one bedroom apartment above Out There Nordic in Rice Lake, Wisconsin. Winter and all it's activities have captured my soul and if all goes according to plan, most of the winter will be spent here. Bjorn Hanson, his wife Kris (owners of Out There), son Per and dog Kussy have made me feel right at home. The next few months will be spent learning all things about xc skiing (Kris is a coach and has taken me under her wing), Fat biking, snowshoeing and learning how to survive AND enjoy nights spent in 10-20 below temp's. There is no TV, no car, just simplicity. Rice Lake is about 8200 folks and the pace of life here is perfect. A year ago I had the thought...."I wonder if I could figure out a way...". It was a bit scary leaving the known behind even if just for a few months but I can't remember ever feeling so excited. The snow is here and it will stay for the next 4 months.

This is what winter should be. If your ever in the area please stop in and say hi. Bjorn and the crew will be happy to chat ya up and if your looking for ski gear or advice about said gear, they really know their stuff. (A waxing clinic is underway downstairs as I type this.)

One last thing before I let you go. Whatever your "I wonder if I could..." question is, please make it happen for yourself. It will be better than you could imagine it.

The quiet space has also got me just about finished with my second book Upside Down in the Yukon River. Here is a little excerpt for you. (excuse any typos or misspelled words. She still needs to take a trip to the editor).

New chapter -
"Good day Mr.Cannon. Your reason for entering Canada?" - the customs
agent asked. "Headed to the Yukon" I replied, a bit full of my
adventurous self. "Taking on the world's longest kayak race."
I can only hazard a guess, as this was my first attempt to pass into
another country, but my sense was that most answers were one word, maybe
two and the agent would manufacture a smile, stamp the passport and
grant access. Perhaps he or she may, if having a better than average day
even follow up with a half or perhaps three quarter "Enjoy your Stay."
My instincts reckoned that with hundreds or more likely thousands of
"reason for entering's" and an equal amount of passports to be stamped
there was little interest or time for banter.
I could almost see it happen....just as the words "enjoy your stay" were
traveling from mind to mouth, elbow at the ready, passport about to be
stamped, the gentleman caught himself. "What's that you say? Kayak race?
World's longest?" Again, only guessing, but this fella snapping out of
routine probably was an occurrence of some rarity. Certainly the token
response of "business" or "pleasure" surely was met with only a stamp of
the passport and a "Next please."
"Yep, that's right", glancing quickly over my shoulder, a hundred or
more folks in wait, "Off to Whitehorse. 700 kilometers down the Yukon
River, Whitehorse to Dawson City."
Perhaps I touched something in the man. Was he more than he appeared
(most people are). Maybe he was a great adventurer or at the very least a
flicker of adventure still burned inside the man. A few seconds delay
at the Customs I surmised was equal to minutes in other situations. This
line stopped, or slowed for more than the required time needed to move
us travelers through seldom, if at all.
Looking up, stamp holder arm half cocked, stalled but at the ready, the
gentlemans head still raised as I replied. The man took just a moment to
fully absorb my answer. With a genuine smile of approval, he seemingly
stamped my passport with not just seal of Canada but his own seal of
approval. "Good luck man. Welcome to Canada!" And with that, I left the
United States behind for the first time in my life."

Hope you enjoyed. If you want in on the early release just go to www.expandyourpossible.com where you can download a free copy of my first book "40 Days" FREE for the holidays. (GREAT GIFT ALSO) and that gets you on the list for early release info for Upside Down in the Yukon River.

Monday, November 7, 2016

Where to start??? I know some say that the beginning is the best place to do so. In this instance that would require rewinding the clock 40 plus years. It would require revisiting a time long ago when my Grandma Rachel would retire for the night, say around 8 pm, equal parts tired and excited. Granny was a lifelong Cubs fan and listening to the nightly radio broadcasts on WGN was one of the many loves of her life. The first of course was Grandpa Bill, the greatest man I ever knew. Many others I am sure have said the same over the years. He was extraordinary. They are no longer with us but are with me in spirit in so very many ways. It is because of two of these ways that I nearly missed the start of Sarah Cooper's Spotted Horse Ultra, and also why I was there in the first place.

This was the inaugural year for the Spotted Horse Ultra. If you knew Sarah Cooper then you arrived knowing you were about to be put to the test. In Ultras it is sometimes best to share what a race is NOT to best understand what it really IS. Here is what you will NOT find at Sarah Cooper's Spotted Horse Ultra. You will not find long extended sections of flat gravel roads that have you begging for an end to the monotony. Nor will you find cheering sections lining the roads, broken up by an aid station every two miles, or in this case, even fifty. There will NOT be a drop bag waiting for you at the Casey's (Mile 70) or the local C- store (Mile 135). There is NOT a single course marking. Not even an occasional "left turn here" where only a nondescript dirt road travels quietly off into the distance, hill after bloody hill hiding it's terminus. Not paying attention to your GPS or Cue cards at that moment? Enjoy the ride. Even going the wrong way, the scenery of this race is stunning. It's hills and views equally breathtaking in the effort needed to climb and the expansive countryside you will be overlooking upon conquering one of the hundreds...yes hundreds of hills this race gifts to all who dare. You will NOT share the company of others side by side 10 deep in each direction. There will be no roadside bands to quell the inner speak that says " Can I do this? Am I up to the challenge?" No Eye of the Tiger will blast around the next corner..No man made distractions exist here, unless you count the occasional farm home or shed as such. There will be no one cheering your name, no signs or cowbells....unless from around an actual cow's neck.

What there IS. A true individual test, equal parts in and out. It is truly a privilege to spend an entire day on a bicycle. You WILL see the sunrise to your left shoulder, welcoming you to the day ahead. A mix of orange, purples and hues so beautiful they remain unnamed. Real quiet, the kind one

experiences on a walk, or in this case a ride through the countryside, far away from the ambient noise of the city. It is a quiet that can only be experienced. Attempting to describe it requires word smithing that is beyond this writer's skill set. If you are able to welcome the sun and realize it will be your companion for the day, time loses it's meaning and then it's power. You are free to ride all day long, free of the "when will this be over?", free from the "god, how much farther?". Then it's just you and the very best that Iowa has to offer, hill after hill, winding streams, dirt roads and the sudden realization that not a soul on this earth knows where the hell you are. Can you feel that? When the sun switches shoulders and now gives you it's last bit of warmth before setting, you will, if quick, be done, if not so quick, close to done. The day will end soon enough and after recovering you will long to return.

The Spotted Horse offers a space to clear the mind and get lost in the moment. It offers a true challenge, one of both body AND spirit. 150 miles or 200 miles. Thousands of feet of elevation gain. (My GPS showed close to 15,000 for the 200. I'm told it is closer to 12,000). If you come to Iowa, to The Spotted Horse Ultra, hoping for a true test of put the bit firmly into your mouth, no frills, no excuses, no BS, it's me vs. the distance gravel grinding, you will come away completely satisfied. It is as stout a test and at the same time stunningly beautiful a ride as you will find ANYWHERE in these United States. It is every bit the equal of the Almonzo 162, The Dirty Kanza 200, The Heck of the North and I say this having ridden them all.

I showed up at the race on just a few hours sleep, suffering a Game 3 Chicago Cubs' loss in the World Series. A 4 a.m. wake up and 6 a.m. start came all too quick and with sleep still in my eyes, I nearly missed it. My love of Ultras be damned, I was not going to bed before the game was over, win or lose. Grandma Rachel wouldn't have liked that. To win the series would have meant more to her than I could have ever imagined. For those non-baseball fans, it had been 108 years since the Cubbies had won it all. It was the longest drought in all of baseball. I felt as if while I watched, she watched, through and with me.

When times got tough, and they always do at some point in a race like this, I'd look over the countryside, reminded of the long Sunday drives Grandpa and I would take. He'd take note of everything as we drove..."See that eagle there in the distance son?" "That next farmhouse... I've sold feed to them for 16 years, over a hundred cows in that lot.". "Keep your eyes open, the deer will be coming out as the sun gets lower". Everything became so much easier remembering those special times. The soreness of the legs drifted away, the voices in the mind fell silent. It was as if he was right there with me again.

I
was most certainly well "over my ski's" on this one. The Yukon River Quest. 715 kms, 444 miles. That is the distance from Whitehorse to Dawson City, Yukon. My
longest paddle to date? Perhaps 50 miles. Unknowingly, I had enlisted
the assistance of the heavens. Rules of the Universe, of which I was
just vaguely aware were now being put to the test. Now, some 12 years
later, I can attest to a simple truth. The Universe lines up behind all
who dare. It matters not wether you are "qualified" to take on the test
or not. I'd suggest if we are already "qualified" it's not much of a
dream in the first place. (See chapter starting quote.) I like imagining
the secretary to the "Universe" as he/she looks over the constant
stream of dreams passing by, occasionally exclaiming "Yes!!! Finally
something worthy of our powers. Get luck, fate and coincidence on the
line...we got us a real kindred spirit here to help!" The point is this.
We are capable of SO much more than we imagine. Most "dreams" once
accomplished, looking back were only a small test of what we can
achieve.the beauty however, is that with each accomplishment we gain
confidence in the Universal laws and begin to trust that we are only
limited by our own imagination. The Universe excites in the endless
possibility of all things. Armed with the knowledge that impossible
exists only within our own minds, the world becomes our playground. If
you knew without exception that failure was not an option, would the
size and scope of your dreams change?
If you'd like to be
informed of the release, save a few bucks and get a free copy of "40
DAYS, Life, Love, Loss and a Historic Run Around One of the World's
Largest Lakes" visit www.expandyourpossible.com#dreamBIGdreams

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Turquoise Lake, just a few miles outside of Leadville , Colorado was long ago out of sight and mind.

Now, well over 11,000 feet, climbing towards Hagerman pass, I gasped for air, putting a foot down to steady myself before pedaling any further. Oh how my lungs yearned for the thick, often cussed, humid air, so abundant back home in Des Moines, Iowa.

Months earlier, Outside magazine had shared an article detailing a three night,4 day bike packing trip through the Rocky mountain's 10th Mountain Hut System. Already familiar with the hut system after adventuring the past few years on winter journeys, the idea of loading the fat bike, kicking it with great friends and pedaling to the sky was a certain "Hell Yeah." Touring/Bikepacking has been a love now for some time. A 2000 mile, 12 mountain pass, 5 state, 1 marathon bike trip in 2004 sealed my fate. In truth, the adventure bug had bitten me years prior, but this first really big 'go' really opened my eyes to the wild, high places, the joy of seeing them self supported and on two wheels.

Outside laid it out perfectly, detailing mileage, things to see and do, the area, pretty much all the intel one would need. Maria and Kevin, two great friends were in from the start, it may have actually been Maria who first found the article, so maybe it would be correct to say Michele and I were in from the start. Joe and Joanne Schmidt were next to fall in line. They had a BIG trip planned already for that time that entailed heading out to Montana to see their son Stephen, doing their own biking around Glacier and much more. They were helpless to resist the temptation. I don't remember them fighting it much, or at all. A few more days added to the front end of their journey, bikepacking with friends, early fall in the Rockies? Duh.

The 10th Mountain hut system is a national treasure. Years prior, Bill Dabney and Tim Bock, great friends from Denver had invited me to join a crew headed up to Janet's cabin. They had been picking off cabins for a couple years, back country skiing, using different 10th mountain huts as base camps. I should clarify, that to classify many of these structures as huts is akin to calling the White House just a house.

It appears that there are some more primitive dwellings in the hut system but so far, I believe I've stayed at 8 or so of these, none of which would be called roughing it, unless perhaps your name was Donald Trump. (sorry, couldn't help myself). Janet's cabin consisted of the following. Composting indoor toilet, which is no small deal. A two a.m. January walk to the outhouse at 11,000 feet is a bit more adventure than some may like. Look up during the walk though and all will be forgiven. The kitchen, or in this case, kitchens are propane served, stocked with utensils and well lit thanks to the solar panels feasting on the over 300 days of sunlight Colorado supplies. If your bones are a bit creeky after carving out a few lines on the virgin snow or snowshoeing up the mountainside to take in the view from 12,000 feet, the wood burning sauna will heal what ails ya. Like I said, certainly not roughing it. Janet's, if memory serves correctly, sleeps well over 20 so an added benefit of these trips is that you'll likely meet some like minded cool folk. I've found, almost without exception that people who dig hiking up mountains in the winter or pedaling up them during the warmer months, supplies in tow, don't suck. On this inaugural trip up the snow packed trail to Janet's a gentleman in his early seventies was toting a couple bottles of wine and some ribeyes on the sled behind him for he and his lady. I'd have been impressed with that were it at sea level and had the guy been in his thirties. Lucky gal. Like I said, plenty of cool folk. I have yet to find another wood burning sauna on my travels through the 10th mountain system, but each "hut" has impressed in it's own unique way.

Betty Bear to Skinner's to Uncle Bud's, that would be the sequence of huts we'd be seeing on this journey. All sit above 11,000 feet so don't be lulled to sleep by the posh accomodatio's, this trip is far from soft. If there was one shortcoming of the Outside article, through no fault of their own, it is that conveying the lack of oxygen available while attempting to pedal a loaded bike up double digit percent inclines, over and around rocks bigger than your head, is impossible. I'll do my best to do so here.....it's a real bugger...and if you are not physically prepared it will suck the joy out of your trip, may induce debilitating headaches and perhaps a few tears. A couple tips. Drink often, eat often, rest often. Leave your flat lander ego behind and allow your body, not your mind to be the boss. Each little break allows the opportunity to take in some of the most remarkable views offered on this planet. Eventually, you will find your pace in this rare air. To be hurried in this place is to miss an opportunity to immerse in solitude, to breathe in a silence not found in everyday life, to make deposits into the mental bank account that can be withdrawn when needed upon return to your "real world." It is in these places that one is afforded the opportunity to lose oneself...and find oneself.

Thanks for taking the time to read part 1 of "Going Up? - Bikepacking the 10th Mountain Huts". Part two will be coming soon. Headed out for a bike ride so that's all for now.

Asleep before 9pm the evening before the race, I looked forward to a solid nights sleep. The air conditioner had been set to slightly above hibernation temps. An annoying parking lot light was no match to the taping shut of the curtains. 4 am would rear it's ugly head soon enough. I was doing everything possible to stay knocked out until the iPhone alarm, backed up by the hotel wake up call, rudely interrupted my dreams of dry roads, overcast skies and tailwinds. Mother nature had different plans. Although not in the forecast, she cut loose with her own wake up call. The occasional flashes of light interrupted my otherwise deep sleep. Not enough to completely wake me but more in that sort of in between asleep and awake place. The rumbles that eventually followed, in concert with the wind and driving rain confirmed the earlier flashes of light were not of my imagination. "No matter". I thought, as the storm moved through before first light. "It's been pretty dry. These gravel roads will eat that rain right up. Might even keep the Kanza dust down a bit." WRONG.

Ted "freaking" King?!?! Come on!!! Really?!?!? This dude has raced in the biggest bike races in the world, literally. The Tour de France, The Giro d' Italia, the Vuelta, he has toed the line at them all. And now he was being announced at the starting line of the DK200. There are few other sports, if any that you get to compete on the same playing field at the same time with some of the best in the world. Ted was not the first big name to race here, but with due respect to other greats who have raced here, Rebecca Rusch, Dan Hughes, Brian Jensen, Yuri Hauswald to name a few, he's the biggest. To follow in his tire tracks was pretty cool. The word is out and much like Leadville years ago, professional road riders are starting to realize the joy, beauty (and pain) that gravel racing provides. There are no big paychecks awaiting the winner's here, but I believe it reconnects them with the true challenge and individualistic nature of the sport that drew them to it as kids. The Dirty Kanza is as pure as it gets...a crystal clear mirror showing you exactly who you are.

Ten miles into the race, just as quickly as things started moving, they nearly came to a halt. "Wreck", I thought. Fortunately that was not the case, although some might debate that. Mother Nature's early morning deluge had proved too much for the low lying farm ground of Emporia to absorb and we found ourselves riding...very slowly...through about a foot or more of water. It lasted only a hundred meters or so but it was enough to, like a magnet, attract the mud and gravel up into the drive train of every single bicycle. It could not have come at a worse time. Everyone jockeying for position, antsy, jittery, impatient and then one by one, ten by ten it happened. There may have been as many as 100 by the time it was all over...derailleurs were snapping everywhere, sucked up into the back wheel spokes and in just ten miles, ending a race, for many they had been training a year or even longer for. I narrowly escaped. The year prior, in very similar conditions, unwilling to take DK's medicine and be patient, I too had snapped my rear derailleur. There are few worse sounds to a cyclist's ears. It wasn't long until we were clear of the rain soaked lowlands and on our way to the first checkpoint some 40 miles down the road. I can only imagine that there were many like me, who's bikes hobbled into the first checkpoint, ridable, but not working entirely well. I pedaled those last 30 or so miles without use of my small chain ring. Joel and Mark , a couple guys crewing at Almonzo a few weeks prior had taken me in, and were it not for their skills I might still be out on the race course.

The 2nd leg of the Dirty Kanza is where things get "interesting". Three years prior, on my first DK, I arrived in the first checkpoint pretty full of myself, asking a fellow rider what all the fuss is about...something like "That wasn't so bad, I expected more from what I have heard about this race." I remember like it was just yesterday, his coy grin and humorless reply, "your about to ride the toughest 50 miles of your life" and off he rode. I would amend that slightly after four years battling this beast. He should have said " You are about to ride the hardest 100 miles of your life". Perhaps he was thinking it but didn't want to break this greenhorn's spirit so early in that day. I invite my friends to ride the Kanza not so much because I want to see them suffer but rather so we can speak the same language. There is no way to convey the conditions of, I hesitate to call them roads, in that middle 100 miles.

It's angry, it's mean, it's as at least one fellow rider found out, break your jaw and knock out a few teeth mean. The climbs are steep and seemingly stretch out to the sky. Fist size pieces of rock make these hills punishing to climb and treacherous to descend. You lose it pointed downhill here, "road rash" is the least of your worries. At the same time, when able, look in any direction and the views , similar to the climbs, were breathtaking.

I doubt, other than those who oversee the herds of free range cattle here, that many other humans have ever seen this part of Kansas. It is pure, untouched, undeveloped beauty as the creator made it however long ago. We were the first settlers, the great adventurers, striking out to find the frontier before it was swallowed up. Our horses were pedal powered, fueled by Gatorade and Gu. We faced different challenges from the great adventurers years past, but the spirit I believe, similar. All of us wished to see not only what was "out there", but perhaps, more so, to see what we were made of inside. Dirty Kanza provides you that. Fast or slow are just hollow words here. Ted King to the final finisher. Everyone takes the exact same test, perhaps crying the same tears, certainly facing their own inner demons and in some cases even leaving some blood on the sun baked prairie. Very seldom, from competitor to competitor is it asked, "What was your time?" or "When did you finish?" The question more times than not is simply, "Did you finish?" and if the answer is "Yes", perhaps there is nothing more in return than a simple confirming nod. For they know what you did the only way there is to know, by taking the test and passing it themselves.

Monday, April 4, 2016

All right, I admit it...I don't have a cat, which in turns means no one stole the beast, but I was tired of trying to figure out a catchy headline for today's post. I read somewhere that "cats" rule the Internet...and "bacon". There is a VERY good chance however, that if I ever do use bacon in a blog post title it WILL involve bacon. In an attempt to assuage (my new word for the day) my guilt I am going to share with you a lesson re-learned yesterday. It is a lesson that allowed me to take some 2 million steps circling Lake Michigan. It is a lesson that allowed me to write a book, when I had ZERO idea what I was doing. It is a lesson that gets my butt out of bed those mornings when everything screams "ONE MORE SNOOZE BUTTON!!" and it works in EVERY single situation you could ever find yourself. Ready??? Wait for it...

Not yet. A little story first...(there may be a clue or three hidden in here)

Saturday morning was the 6th annual Gents race, a 100km bike race/ride where 5 people compete as a team and to record an "official" finish, must all cross the line together. If one person quits. it's a team DNF. It is the ultimate "no one left behind" event. Held north of Des Moines, Iowa, the course is tabletop flat and if the wind blows, it's gonna get ya. 65-ish teams were signed up. 50-ish showed up. 15-ish saw the fore casted winds of 30 mph, gusting to 50 and decided they would not even toe the line. This decision would seriously hamper their chances of finishing. (clue #1)

The weatherman was spot on. At 9:54 our band of brothers and one sister left Slater, Iowa, promptly made a left turn into the wind and Mother Nature punched us right in the face. I've ridden my bike in some pretty inhospitable conditions but NEVER in a wind like that. I'm 200 pounds and the gust nearly took the bike out from under me. We'd find out later it planted more than one competitor into the roadside ditch. I'm certain we all questioned our decision to start and our ability to finish right then and there, but we took stock of the situation, settled in and got to work. Equal parts excited and "what the hell have we got ourselves into". (clue #2)

Beth Steffensen Montpas and Teri Pottorff left the small starting town an hour or so before us. The race has a staggered start, seeding teams so, in theory, there could be a 65 team sprint to the finish. That hasn't happened yet but it does work out where most teams finish within a hour or so of each other. The wind whipping splintered three of their team very early on. Undeterred, Beth and Teri forged on. There would be no "Official Finish", but they were pressing on, eager to take the test they had signed up (and trained their asses off) for. It's one thing to imagine what a 50 mile an hour gust feels like, it's
another when the reality of it nearly knocks you off your bike...all the
while trying not to wreck your 4 teammates who are in the same
wrestling match.

I am only guessing here, but' I'd be willing to bet these two made no promises of a finish to each other, but rather a pact to stay in the fight and see what happens. (clue #3) Yes, it was incredibly windy and a bit cold (40 degrees), but the sun was shining, there was no real danger, and the sense of adventure was palpable. It is not the sunny, slight wind at your back days that stories are told about. This day would be discussed around the campfire for years to come.

Kim Beaty Hopkins, Amy Lynch, Joann Skolaut Schmidt, Heather Wince and Karolyn Jones Zeller are all tough as nails ladies and I have enjoyed years of riding with them all. To be honest, I would have given them less than a 50/50 chance of finishing. This is not a knock. When Mama Nature welcomed me with that first swat to the face, I put my chances at less than 50/50 too. SPOILER ALERT - they did finish and were the ONLY all lady team to do so.

(photo courtesy of Ken Sherman K&K images)

After the race Kim shared with me, "I fully expected at each turn, someone would suggest we quit, but no one ever did. We all just kept pedaling." (clue #4) I love her race recap on Facebook ... "Still trying to figure out how yesterday's sufferfest ended up being so much fun. Honestly, it was the hardest day I've ever spent in the saddle and I am thankful for teammates who worked together and took care of each other. The conditions yesterday made for the perfect playing field for this style of race...what might have been nearly impossible alone was manageable with the effort of the group. Thanks to Bruce, Kyle, Rob and the whole Bike Iowa crew for putting on my favorite race of the year...I hope I never have to ride in those conditions again!"

I stood at this trail head yesterday, sure of how bad the upcoming walk/shuffle/run was going to suck.

The previous day's Gents race, had been wonderfully brutal. It was the most challenging four hours ever spent on a bike and here I stood feeling pretty spiritually and physically bankrupt.Thankfully, I was able to turn off all the negative self talk long enough to take a few deep breaths and allow for the thought..."SHOW UP AND SEE WHAT HAPPENS." That's it. That's the lesson. Like so many times before, once started, the battle was already, in a sense, won. An hour later, grinning ear to ear, the lesson was further imprinted on my soul.

A reward awaits all those who show up. We do not all share the same finish line. For one Saturday morning in April, 240 or so crazy, mad, adventurous souls raced towards many different finishing lines. For some, it was two miles, for some it was 31, others found their finishing line at some other nondescript place out on that windswept prarie. Some found their way the entire 62 miles. Back at the Nitehawk, the event host bar, all eventually gathered again. I doubt you could pick out who traveled what distance. If you SHOWED UP, you took home a story. You won.

Wednesday, March 30, 2016

The next time you feel over-whelmed or under-motivated ask yourself "Can I take just one step?" STOP RIGHT THERE!!! I can hear your mind already trying to move you on to step 2, step 3, step 438. Do NOT take the bait!!!Let's use today's workout, or if you are just trying to get your first workout in years done, as an example. What I love is that this works for beginner to elite and all in between. Identify your first step and ask the question "Can I put on my running shoes?" STOP, answer the question. Yes you can! Now ask, "Can I take just one more step? Can I walk out the door?" (I am assuming you have answered the "Can I get dressed question"). STOP. Answer the question. Don't listen to any of the mind's background noise. Of course you can. Does the scheduled distance of the workout have you beaten before you begin? It makes no difference if today's walk/run is 1 block or 20 miles. Ask yourself the question, "Can I take just one step?" STOP, answer the question. Yes You Can! Can you take another step? Yes You Can!! How about just one more? YES!!! Can you feel what is happening? Can you feel the momentum you are building? Congratulate yourself every step of the way. Hooting, hollering, self hi fives are all great things. Look yourself square in the mirror, saying "YOU ARE ON FIRE!" This is the genius of "JUST ONE STEP." It places you perfectly in the moment, and in the moment, anything is possible. The one block walk that seemed so difficult to start just 10 minutes earlier is now underway. You have created momentum and now there is no stopping you...that block is going down!! Even cooler is the fact that you may create so much momentum, you walk a block and a half. Is today's workout a 20 miler? Doesn't matter the distance, this works every time and at any time. "JUST ONE STEP" is undefeated. It NEVER fails, no matter where you apply it. Starting a business? Focusing on steps 28, 47 and 94 can lead to never taking step ONE. Identify the goal, the steps needed to attain the goal and then dedicate to only one thing...THE FIRST STEP. Step two will wait patiently for you. It isn't going anywhere. Wanting to take that dream vacation? Identify where and when and what is the very first thing that needs to be done in order to take the trip. Don't let your mind wander. Take "JUST ONE STEP". Will the journey, the challenge be without difficulty or challenge? Perhaps yes, more likely, no. Will it take a few unpredictable turns? Hopefully. We call that adventure. If at any point you begin to feel overwhelmed, don't freak, you got this. That feeling is a great alarm. Take a few deep breaths, slow down and identify exactly what needs to be done next. Remember, you can always take "JUST ONE STEP". And just like that you are back in business, centered and on to the next step. At the age of 26, I decided I would not drink TODAY. I might get drunk as a skunk tomorrow, but just not TODAY. Can you guess what my mantra was the next day? I identified my goal to quit drinking, but it was overwhelming. NEVER is a VERY long time. Today I could handle. In 2009 I decided to try and run across the state of Iowa a marathon a day for 11 days in a row, 292 miles. I had never done as many as two marathons back to back. When times got tough I always asked "Can you take just one more step?" The answer was always yes. In 2012 I decided to take on Lake Michigan, 1037 miles in 40 Days. I estimated the journey to be 2,000,000 steps. Many days the first conversation was, can I make it three steps from the foot of the bed to the toilet in the RV? I would not, could not allow thoughts of the 50,000 steps that lay in wait, to do so would have paralyzed me. The answer to the 3 steps to the "loo" question was always yes and it allowed for the "Can I put on my running shoes" question (remember that one?), which was also always a "Yes" and just like that I was out the door and underway. Each "JUST ONE STEP" allows you to see a greater vision of what is possible. It allows you to see what would have otherwise been hidden from your view. The beauty of "JUST ONE STEP" is that it always entices you to take another, and then another, and yet another. You become your own snowball gaining in size and speed, eventually rolling nearly without effort, unstoppable. Two promises I can make you. One...100% of things never started, fail. Two, someday, you will look back in awe of where "JUST ONE STEP" led you.Dream Big Dreams,Steve Cannon

Wednesday, March 2, 2016

THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!! To all of you who have read this blog, bought the book or ever offered so much as a "like" on Facebook!! Who the hell would have ever thought a kid with a 13 in English on his ACT could ever write a book?!?! Remember, it's never where you start that matters!!

Monday, February 29, 2016

WARNING....A GRAPHIC PHOTO OR TWO (and a bit of language) ACCOMPANY THIS POST!

The bartender and the few folks still in the bar welcomed me with a
mixture of "What the hell are you doing out there" and "Get those
clothes off and get by the fire". I wasn't in that bad of shape but I
can imagine someone walking into the bar with a frozen face, off of a
bike, at 1 am in these conditions, is not what the clientele were
expecting. I accepted their offers and did as instructed, for the most
part. I wasn't sweaty so I actually added a layer, but I did head over
towards the fire and allowed the barkeep to make me a pizza of my own.
Leaving Ojibwa, I'd have bet you that by this time, the lights of Rice
Lake would be in my view. How had the wheels come off so fast? At the
time, I only knew I was struggling and food, drink and rest were
necessary before taking on the last 15-16 miles. Sitting next to the
fire, wrestling my face mask in order to get food and drink into my
mouth must have been quite a sight.Thirty minutes later, an entire Pizza
in my belly and two water bottles full of nearly boiling water, so as
to make it to the finish without freezing, I left my Saturday night beer
drinking buddies behind. I had been on the bike nearly 19 hours.

Well
fed, well hydrated and properly dressed, spirits were still good. Every
piece of gear I had was now on. Wool knickers were covered by insulated
wind pants. The three layers that had served me so well all day,
sometimes zipped, sometimes not were all fully zipped up and safely
shielded by the non breathable, body heat enclosing rain jacket. My hood
was up and fully zipped over a head beanie and my 45 North wool cap.
There was not a single part of my body that was not covered by at least
two if not three layers. The "CobraFists" (hand protection that mount
onto the handlebars), each had a couple hand warmers in them to keep the
digits protected. At the time there was no way of knowing exactly how
cold it was, but it was COLD. Make a mistake and expose any body parts
to this weather and the damage could be permanent. Others had already
found this out or were about to.

Andrea Cohen and Bonnie Gagnon would finish one two in the Women's division. Andrea Cohen
would end up with frostbite on two of her toes and would be unable to
compete at Arrowhead two weeks later. Bonnie nearly froze her ear
off..." I thought something was hanging out of my
cap so I kept trying to rip it off, only to discover it was my
earlobe". The pieces of skin in this photo are from her ear.

Mark Scotch
would finish the race on his bike in just over 22 hours. Towards the
end of the race he had to abandon his goggles due to icing.

Mark has a
ton of experience (and as you see, a great attitude) in these conditions. He didn't do any permanent
damage, but after finishing and getting inside, these were his
comments..."The lights and sudden warmth hit me in a couple of minutes
and my left
eye felt like someone stabbed an ice pick in it. The pain was so intense
it caused me to lose my balance and I had to lay down for awhile."

Mark
McCulloch would not fare nearly as well. So intent on finishing and
qualifying for Arrowhead he pushed through the numbing of his feet. His
reward for battling Mother Nature for 25 hours on the bike?

Mark
would end up in an emergency burn unit for three days and in bandages
for 6 weeks. He just got the bandages off this week. They were able to
save all his toes. It should be noted that Mark DID finish. It's a real
possibility he'll never again be able to race in cold temperatures. I'm
guessing there were more stories like these and I am certainly grateful
to not have had to test myself in these conditions my first year.

I
knew the remaining trail well from the year before. It would be a hilly
8 miles or so before the trail turned north and intersect with the spur
into Rice Lake just 4 miles from the finish. This was the home stretch.
The freezing temperatures had nearly reduced the bike to a single
speed. A few of the hills, which had been ridable earlier in the day,
now had to be walked. The walking actually felt good and allowed some
time to reflect and enjoy the harsh beauty of my surroundings. This was
the sharp end of the stick. It was so cold you could actually hear the
trees crackling. It was as if mother nature's icy grip was attempting to
squeeze the life right out of them. Certainly, it was obvious that the
conditions were dangerous, but I had never felt so alive.

The
hills began to subside and I knew the turn to the north had to be soon
ahead, which would mean just 4 miles to the Rice Lake spur. My pace had
slowed to what seemed like a crawl. Even the slightest incline required
rising out of the seat and standing on the pedals to keep them turning.
It felt like someone had attached a damn anvil to the back of the bike
in comparison to how it had felt just 8 hours earlier. That right hand
bend in the trail had to be soon. There were mile markers on the trail,
which I had ignored all day. I had no interest in counting up to 75 and
back down to zero, but I couldn't resist nor could I believe my eyes
when the marker read "2". In my fatigued mental and physical state I had
not noticed that I had already made the turn to the north. The barn
doors were swinging open. I was 6 miles from home!!

Had
it not been for the trail crossing the highway, I'm not sure when I
would have noticed. Crossing the pavement, the bike nearly slid out from
under me. There was no ice. Getting off the bike, I couldn't believe
it. "How freaking long had it been this way?!?!" I had figured it was
the snow, or the length of time on the bike or a combination of the two.
Thinking back, I remembered the bike pump outside the turnaround back
at the gym in Park Falls. That fleeting thought to check my tire
pressure, ignored, had cost me who knows how much time and anguish. The
back tire was completely flat. Pushing the bike 6 more miles would mean 3
hours or more. That's a tough pill to swallow when you have already
plugged in 30 - 45 minutes. I made the decision to stop and air up the
tire. No big deal, I had a fat CO2 cartridge to get me started and
hammering on that hand pump to fill the rest of the tire would keep me
from getting too cold.

Working on a bike with big bulky
gloves is not easy. Combine that with your mental state after 20 hours
on the bike and it gets way tougher. The zippers on the Bike Bag Dude
frame bag were nearly frozen shut. It wasn't that they had gotten wet or
had any history of trouble. Far from it. These bags, hand made in
Australia are the best. Nothing wanted to work in this cold. The CO2
cartridge and I had a quick talk before attaching it to the tire. "We
don't need any trouble here. You need to do your job now. This is why
your here. Understood?" I wouldn't normally make a habit of chatting
with a CO2 cartridge but this was not your average tire needing air
situation. It turned out the cartridge was not a good listener. Slowly
unscrewing the device to release the air, it puked it's contents right
back at me."SH#T SH#T SH#T". Strike one. I tightened it back up in
attempt to save what was left in the cartridge, checked the connection
and gave it another go, each time taking off my gloves in an effort to
make sure I didn't mess things up. The second attempt was no better.
Strike two. Did anything work in these conditions?!?! Pumping up a Fat
bike tire by hand is no treat. It takes forever. Time is not your friend
in these conditions. Racers in the Iditarod Trail Invitational have a saying when it's gets
really cold. "Move or Die." The hand pump would have to do.

"Why
won't this damn thing go on?!?!?" I couldn't get the pump to attach to
the valve stem. This made no sense. Had I lost my mind? Had it abandoned
me to the point that the simplest of tasks could no longer be
performed? Then I remembered back a month earlier using the pump on my
girlfriend's bike. She had a different stem so I'd had to switch out the
small pieces inside the pump to make it work. This was not a huge
problem. If you were doing this on a summer evening back in Iowa it was
not even a small problem. Here, the clock was ticking. Yes, I was dressed
right and yes I had kept myself from sweating and these things saved me
from being in real trouble, but eventually the cold would win if I
didn't get this show moving. It was necessary to take off the gloves
again in order to get the end of the hand pump off and switch the two
small plastic pieces back. I focused as best I could, so as to not drop
or misplace a part. It wasn't easy. Exposed to the cold for this many
hours, trivial tasks like taking off a helmet can be difficult. It took
only a couple minutes to make the switch and...it didn't fit. "Ok,
Dumbass, you gotta focus!" I must have taken the two pieces out and then
put them back in the exact same way. Taking a deep breath and focusing
with all my might, I removed the two pieces again, made sure to flip
them correctly, placing them back into the pump and screwing it closed. Again, it would not fit. Removing it from the valve stem, I prayed that it was just cold. There was no way I could have messed this up. It would not go on. I snapped. "God DA#%, SONOFA#&@TH, WHAT THE #@%& IS GOING ON?!?!" I screamed into the dark, frigid air. There was more expletives in the barrage than I care for my mother to read here so use your imagination. This was the simplest of tasks, I thought, now nearly out of my mind. Remembering something I had read years before about Everest I did my best to calm myself. The quote was in reply to a question as to what killed most people on Everest and the reply was "panic". This was not the place to lose it. The problem was not the pump, it had no reason to fight me. My fingers remaining attached to my hands for the remainder of my life were of no concern to it. Focusing with the thought that "this is it, this is your last chance" I breathed deeply in an attempt to laser my focus. Mother natures ice cold tentacles were finding their way into me. Soon she would have me firmly in her grasp. Screwing the top of the hand pump back on I said a quick prayer before attempting to reattach it to the valve stem. If this failed, I'd have to start walking and was unsure if that would be enough to warm me. It's doubtful anyone has ever been forced into their sleeping bag 6 miles from the finish at Tuscobia. I hoped not to be the first.

It went on. I pumped for all I was worth, not so much in an effort to get back in the race as to warm up my nearly shivering body. Hand pumping a completely flat fat tire is no treat. I welcomed it. Switching hands when they grew tired, the activity was working not only to better the tire condition but I could feel my core warming. Optimism is a good thing. There was reason to believe the finish was once again near. The tire was not fully inflated but it was close enough to get me home I figured. The pump was stuck. I could not get it off the valve. Cursing ensued....loudly. If not careful, I could pull the valve stem completely out with the pump. When the pump finally disengaged, valve stem intact, I packed up, threw my leg over the saddle, and got the hell out of there. I was done with this place. It felt like a prison break. There was nothing to see looking back over my shoulder but it sure seemed like I was riding for my life.

It was clear within a couple of minutes that the bead on the tire had not sealed completely and I was losing air fast. If you have ever seen a tractor pull this was almost identical. With each stroke of the pedal it was as if the weight behind me got closer and closer. Eventually, standing on the pedals, pulling on the handlebars in an attempt to get every watt of power out of my legs, the bike just stopped. I was still 4 miles away. I could see the lights of Rice Lake, which only added to the cruelty.

I had turned the cell phone on, just in case this became a real emergency, which it was certainly close to. Text messages between those back home and Chuck (who was forced out of the run due to back problems) let me know that Chuck was waiting in the finish area, wondering where in the world I was and why I wasn't finished yet. Fortunately, with cell service, I was able to reach him and share with him what was going on. He was kind enough to share with the folks back home that I was all right. He'd had enough waiting and let me know he was on his way out. The 1965 western he was watching back at the finish couldn't compare with the real life drama taking place just a few miles down the road.

There would be no more chances taken. I pumped that tire as full as possible, daring it to pop. Rage was my new found fuel. Desperation was the kindling. Less than 4 miles were left between me and the finish. The trail intersected the road 3 or 4 times in this last section. "3 one mile repeats", I told myself. I took off with all I had. Chuck raced ahead and I could see his headlights eventually turn in front of me. Blazing past him, tire still holding, I screamed like a schoolboy on his first carnival ride, his phone camera flashing in an attempt to capture the moment. 2 stops later, Chuck again waiting, I was convinced I had made it. Nearly falling off the bike, I realized I was not yet there. "I can't do it bro, I can't go any further". Completely, physically and mentally bankrupt, the summit in my view seemed unattainable. Chuck offered encouragement and with one last deep breath I mounted the old horse for what I hoped would be the last time.

The blinky light at the end of the trail confused me at first. There was no way a bike could be in front of me. Had I miscalculated yet again? Would there be another mile, maybe two? My mind raced in desperation before realizing the red blinking light was not moving. The building lights just to the right confirmed my hopes. That small $2.99 red blinky light marked the end of the trail. I slowed as I neared it, Chuck howling that I had done it and laughed as I shakily came to a stop..."Dude, don't stop, not here, just across the street to the building!!"

Straddling the bike, I leaned over, hugging him. "You did it man..."Fu@#ing epic!!" He exclaimed. The building and the "official" finish could wait. Straddling the bike, hoping not to fall, I leaned over. "I love you bro. Thanks for being here. Let's go get warm."

This concludes "Losing My Mind 6 Miles From Home...The Tuscobia 158".

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Until next Blog,
Dream Big Dream
Steve Cannon
Author - "40 Days - Life, Love, Loss and a Historic Run Around One of the World's Largest Lakes"

Thursday, February 25, 2016

The previous year at Tuscobia, my first attempt at any race on a fat bike, temperatures before the race were nice and cozy, somewhere around freezing. Biking the mile or so from the hotel to the trail head, the pre-ride skies were a perfect crystal blue. Winter had not yet provided any real opportunities to ride in the snow back home. It was super exciting taking the fully loaded Salsa Mukluk out onto the Tuscobia trail to test her out. Less than twenty pedal strokes down the trail, I was on my ass. The bike just disappeared underneath me. Hopping up quickly I looked around hoping no one had seen 'the rookie" dump it. "Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, start all over again", the song goes. Swinging my leg back over the saddle, I was sure it was just a minor issue. "Probably just need to get a feel for the old girl," I thought. Fifteen pedal strokes.....BAM, on my ass again. I was literally getting a "crash" course in fat bike tire pressure. Looking down the seemingly endless trail, it was not lost on me that I had come to this place to attempt 150 miles and had not yet made it 150 feet. This was not a good start. I let what seemed like half the tire pressure out of both wheels before attempting to remount my bucking bronc. Had this been a rodeo, I was still in search of my first 8 second ride. It helped, but the bike still needed all the 6 foot wide trail to stay upright and had you been watching, I'm sure it seemed more like I was wrestling the bike versus riding it. Had a snowmobile been coming the other direction, it would have been a coin toss as to whether or not it would have turned me and the rig into a hood ornament. Thank goodness for Joe Stiller. I try to give this guy his props as often as possible. Out of the goodness of his heart he had shared with me the gear and clothing tips needed for this type of racing. He vouched for me to the Scotch's (Helen and Chris. Race directors), asking only that I don't make a fool out of him. He had been out with his lovely wife Tina and found me on their return trip back to the trail head. They were not wobbling all over the damn place. "Keep letting air out till you stop sliding all over, then your good." And with that he reached down and seemingly emptied my tires of air. We shared some words, some hugs, took some pics, he and Tina wished me luck and off they went. Continuing on, the bike was much more stable. I wouldn't say it was rock solid underneath me, but I was able to get my first 8 second ride in and then some. By the time the pre ride was over I had covered 5 miles. It took just over an hour. I was tired. Humbled would not do justice to how I felt going to bed that night. Scared sh*tless would be a better description. Trail conditions were better the next morning by comparison. The temperatures had dropped to -7F which hardened the trail a bit. I had never ridden a bike in those temperatures. My clothing set up was spot on and after the first hour I'd made it 8 miles. The day would warm quickly and the trail deteriorated with each uptick in the thermometer. I'd come to find out that warm temperatures are no friend to the winter endurance racer. 24 hours later, at about 6 am, making no stops other than to refuel at the checkpoints, I finished the Tuscobia 150. I was hooked!

This year's version of Tuscobia was the exact opposite. Pre-ride temperatures were at or slightly above freezing and again, that makes the trail crap!! From the moment the gun went off, sending us on our way at 6 am into the darkness, it grew colder and colder with each passing hour. Those unfamiliar with winter ultras would see this as a bad thing. Most, if not all of us racing, welcome it. Leaving the halfway checkpoint in Park Falls, I remembered making this same ride, on this exact same road as we started the race the year prior. I had been so apprehensive, even scared of what lay in wait. Not now. Now, I was fully fueled, 79 miles to go and although always respectful of the race and Mother Nature, this was not just an attempt to finish. The first half of the race had gone nearly exactly to plan. No longer was I riding a bucking bronc. My horse was firmly set underneath me. To the outsider watching it was a guy on a bike, separate. That is not the case however. I imagine the bike living, that we are in this deal together. "I give you my best, you give me your best." More than once, on rides when my tank gets low and times get dark, I tell the bike, no, I ask the bike for a little help. Sounds a bit out there, but this stuff is a real mental challenge and those who do it will tell you they have spoken to their bike, their sled and even the occasional tree that appears to be "old uncle Fred" who died years ago. Hallucinations are common place in this world.

It was difficult to remain patient. I've always been fortunate that I am able to eat ALOT and usually continue on in races without incident. Training and racing had taught me that the engine would process the new fuel quickly and that the muscles would warm to the task ahead quickly. Darkness would soon be upon the race. It was certainly at or below zero by now. It was of no consequence. All parts of the body, toes to the tip of my nose were good. Within a half hour, all systems are firing perfectly. My jacket, vest and under layer all unzipped, letting the northern air in to keep my body temperature regulated. The trail was getting harder and harder, faster and faster. Turning my headlamp on I laughed thinking if I went much faster I might actually out pedal my light. Full of gratitude, I thanked the trail god's for the blessing. This was why I come to these places, these exact moments. I was not riding ON the trail, I was riding WITH the trail. Me, Bike, Trail, all one. Grinning ear to ear, I was FREE. Not a soul on earth knew my whereabouts. I was only known to the trees that cheered my passing or to the deer or the wolf that called this place home. There was no fast or slow, cold or hot. It was 35 miles or so to cover the distance between the halfway checkpoint in Park Falls to the stone building in the park outside of Ojibwa.

(picture taken on a slightly warmer day)

Ojibwa was the only checkpoint on the way back to the finish in Rice Lake. Once you left there, it was 40 miles home. I took stock of where I was exiting the trail. Outside the old stone building were a bunch of runner sleds and a handful of bikes. Swinging open the giant old wooden doors revealed part mess hall, part M.A.S.H. unit.

"Number 18 In!!' I let the volunteer know. It would be impossible to fully describe the environment, due to all that was going on and also because I wasn't there to hang out. A fire raged in the huge stone fireplace. Crock pots full of soup lined the walls. This was a dangerous place. The kind of place that could convince the wary adventurer to relax, warm up and stay awhile. Checkpoints are an evil temptress, so beautiful and inviting. Overstay your welcome and she's got you. Some folks were sleeping in the corners, perhaps not sleeping as much as passed out. Others were attending to their feet or attempting to dry out some clothes or get on different/more clothes before venturing back out. The volunteers were magnificent, offering to help in any way you needed. If you were looking for a soft place to fall, this was it, but beware, you might not get back up. "Number 18 Out!!" 12 Minutes I stayed. Only the eventual race winner, Ryan Atkins, was in and out quicker. I had no idea as to my place in the race and didn't care. I was functioning at or near my best. I'd been on the bike 14 hours and 40 minutes.

The 40 remaining miles included a small town, Birchwood. The year prior Birchwood was a checkpoint on the way out. It was 25 miles down the trail to get there I figured. If in trouble, food, fluids or otherwise, it could provide some sanctuary. Looking back, it would be interesting to see what actually happened to the weather that night, when the cold REALLY hit. It felt like it started sometime very soon after leaving Ojibwa. There are some that would argue it happened much earlier. Certainly below zero is cold, but it was now at or headed to double digit below zero temps and things were starting to happen to me and my trusty steed that I had never before experienced.

Have you ever asked yourself why you don't see many mountain climbers or arctic explorers with big beards? Because as you sweat or the moisture from your breath reaches your chosen method of face protection, they freeze to each other. Eating and drinking was becoming a real challenge. The mask and the hair on my face were frozen solid to each other. To drink or eat, I would have to pull down on the face mask, which did not want to move at all, just to get anything into my mouth. Find an area on your body where you have some hair and give it a very, very slow pull until you fear the hair is going to rip out of the skin. How did that feel? The big, tough guy beard I had been growing all fall and winter was slowly forming a nearly impenetrable ice shield to my mouth.

It seemed that the trail had a bit of a grade to it soon after Ojibwa as well. My pace was slowing. Shifting the bike to compensate for the perceived slight grade, the gears would not hold. Each time the trail would get a bit easier, I'd up shift and then would be unable to shift down again when needed. My bike was freezing underneath me. In this kind of cold, any moisture or wax on the cables will freeze. It would seem that neither man nor bike were built to handle this. This was graduate studies in winter racing. I'd later hear that Race Director Chris Scotch told one of the racers that wind chills were near -40F. I don't know if that's true, but I do know the real temperature was at or near -15F.

The darkness, the never ending trail to nowhere and the seemingly slower trail conditions were starting to take a toll on me. Thoughts of doubt began to creep in. The "bad people" were paying me a visit. I don't like the "bad people". They remind me how dark it is, how psychologically painful the incessant stream of lightly falling snowflakes in my headlamp are. "Your bike is failing. Your brakes are freezing shut. These are the kind of conditions that mame, or worse, kill people." The "bad people" are very dramatic and damn hard to shut up. I had hoped to blow right past Birchwood and attack the last 16 miles. Now I just begged for a sign of the small Wisconsin town. It had been pitch black for so long, without so much as a single bend in the trail. I fixed my gaze low to the ground. Occasionally my headlamp would catch an oncoming snowflake just right and I'd think perhaps it was a farmhouse or highway light only yo look up and realize it was nothing but my mind playing tricks. I was in the desert, able to think of nothing but water. It was light that I thirsted for though, any light would be a break from the total darkness that had my senses screaming for relief. This was Tuscobia at it's best...or it's worst.

Finally, a light. Then soon after a turn in the trail and another few lights. Birchwood was in sight. What an awesome relief. I couldn't wait to pull over at the first bar, score a Pepsi and just be out of the darkness. The temperature was probably -10F by now but it was the darkness that I longed to be free of, not Mother Nature's icy cold grasp. The looks one gets hopping off a bicycle at 11Pm, walking into a bar, face frozen are, as you can imagine, priceless. They had been prepped for my arrival however by another cyclist not far ahead who had stopped in for a soda and some pizza. I benefited from his leftovers and was quickly back on the trail.

Things seemed a bit amiss as I got back on my way. Realizing I was not yet to Birchwood was a very real punch in the gut. I was most certainly going slower and the legs, so strong just hours before were struggling to keep the pace my mind believed capable. "I should have been to Birchwood by now" I thought. Back into the darkness, with less gears at my disposal than just an hour ago, the sufferfest was beginning. I didn't feel low on calories. I was still peeing from time to time. "Why can't I make this bike go?!?!?!".

Birchwood was no longer a place to blow through and attack to the finish. It was now as much a goal as the finish line. I needed Birchwood and all it could provide. Shelter, food, drink, you name it, I was longing for it. Race mode was turning into survival mode. The legs were leaving me and with them, my attitude."

This concludes part 2 of 3 - "Losing my mind 6 miles from home and the Tuscobia 158"

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Tuesday, February 23, 2016

"God
Da*^mn it, Son of a bi#$h, What the &%*^ is going on?!?! Why won't
this #%*#ing thing work?!?!?!" "F^%#!!! F^%# F*^#!!!!" I raged at my
dilemma, alone in the most frigid temperatures I had ever encountered.
If I didn't get moving quickly, there was going to be REAL trouble.

70 miles earlier I sat in the halfway checkpoint, refueling as fast as possible for the return trip to Rice Lake, Minnesota.

The
legs felt great, temperatures were falling fast and my spirits were
high.(The energy bar frozen in my beard nearly took a minor surgery to
remove after finishing). I was here to race, to push myself to the
absolute of my abilities. I'd been on the bike for 10 hours, now in the
place where body and mind are fully aware of what is going on, unified
in the single minded pursuit. Day to day, minute to minute trivial
ramblings of the mind, emails, twitter, text messages, all static, now
gone. Everything was very simple now. Stay warm, but not too warm.
Sweating can be deadly in these conditions. Keep the food and fluid
intake consistent. I wouldn't necessarily categorize it as survival
mode, although it can become that. This place, this race will show you
exactly who you are. It will strip you down physically, mentally, even
spiritually. If you are able to hang on, to push through, it will also
provide you with a deeper connection to all that is real and an expanded
version of what you believe possible. The thermometer was headed
toward an overnight low of somewhere around 15 below, with the wind
picking up a bit, chills could dip to -40 F.

This was my second go at Tuscobia. One year prior I had come to this place with only one goal, to finish my first winter fat bike event. A 150 mile Alaska ITI
qualifier seemed like the perfect place to do so, right? Understand,
one cannot just pay the entry fee money and show up to run, bike or ski
the Tuscobia 150. I only got in based on a decent warm weather ultra
resume, but more so because a race veteran and now great friend (Joe Stiller)
vouched for me. No one has ever died on this race, but visits to the
trauma burn unit to save toes or other extremities are a real
possibility. There are no aid stations waiting for the athletes every 2
miles, or 10 miles......or 20 miles. The race directors are not so much
concerned with your ability to finish as they are your ability to
survive on the trail overnight if things go haywire. The required gear list is extensive and you either pull it behind you on a sled if you are running or in my case, load it onto the bike.

150
mile racers must carry a -20 degree (minimum) sleeping bag, a stove to
heat water or create it by melting snow. 3000 calories (typically in the
form of a large jar of peanut butter) must be on board at all times. We
are instructed to "figure it out" if we are unable to continue on. No
one is coming to your immediate rescue here. There are few problems that
rest, water or food can't solve. Race director's, and damn strong
racers also, Helen and Chris Scotch,
tell us in the pre-race meeting, "get off the trail, so you don't get
run over by a snowmobile, get your sleeping bag and bivy out, grab some
calories and water, a few zzz's and continue on." We are given 48 - 60
hours to finish, depending on the method of forward propulsion. The
majority of DNF's at these events come from mental exhaustion, not
physical. It has been said that "cold, tired and hungry makes cowards of
us all."

Tuscobia provides a very unique mental test.
Imagine pedaling, running or skiing down a never ending tunnel where the
view never changes. Close your eyes and go to that place. Imagine
yourself, looking up hour after hour, minute after minute, step after
grueling step only to see the exact same view in front of you. This race
is a never ending effort to nowhere, a real life Chinese water torture.
Each time you look up from the trail, beyond your conscious perception,
a bit of your spirit is taken away, until eventually it breaks the will
to continue. Once darkness falls, the sensory deprivation multiplies
exponentially. The first 10 hours or so one can at least enjoy the
beautiful trees lining the trail, the contrast of colors from the white
of the snow, to the green of the pines, to the occasional sliver of blue
sky and sun.The view rarely changes, but at least it's a view. Now,
darkness is your only companion. Go to the nearest closet in your home,
step into it, turn off the light, close the door, hop on the bike
trainer or run in place for 8 hours. That is an evening at the Tuscobia
150.

Riding the last 10 miles or so into the checkpoint I
played a fun game of "count the leaders". The previous year I was
probably 50-60 miles into my journey when the first biker passed me
going the other way. I was in awe. This dude was like 30 miles or more
ahead of me. "Damn, that is awesome!!" I thought. It would be another 30
minutes or so until I'd see another bike coming my way. I'd met Jay Petervary
the night before at McDonalds. I've since found out, he too enjoys the
more than occasional ice cream cone, winter or not. They must have given
him the "secret sauce" ice cream. He went on to win in record time. My
ice cream, delicious as it was, had a slightly less superhuman effect. I
finished in 24 hours, maybe 9 hours after Jay. It's great watching some
of these cats throw down and sharing the trail with them. They are
quick to share what they have learned through the years and inspire me
to get better, faster.

Each mile that ticked by that I
didn't see the leader coming back at me was encouraging. These races are
such a mental challenge. I'd suggest that is where most underestimate
the difficulty. Everyone who shows up has the physical ability to get to
the finish line. As your attitude goes, you go. The ability to stay
positive in all conditions is the most valuable skill one can possess.
The bike leader came back my way just 10 miles or so from the halfway. I
spent the remaining miles counting riders.
2...3.....4.....5....6....7....And there it was, the end of the trail. I
recognized it, as last year it was the finish. The race was being done
in reverse this year. I'd spend just enough time in the school Park
Falls gymnasium, where the checkpoint and turnaround was, to get some
soup and me and top off the water bottles before getting out of there.
There were no delusions of catching the leaders but I had plenty left in
the tank and was eager to take up the chase. Rolling away from the
checkpoint I noticed a bike floor pump near the back door and a fleeting
thought to check my tire pressure disappeared just as quickly as it
came. The chase was on.

This concludes Part 1 of 2 - Losing My Mind 6 Miles From Home - The Tuscobia 158

If
you have enjoyed this, "subscribe to/follow" the Expand Your Possible
Blog and check out the previous stories from this year's Arrowhead 135
and Actif Epica.

Thursday, February 18, 2016

"From the northern land of cold, ice and
darkness come Hrimthurs (Old Norse “rime thurs”); a tribe of powerful
Frost Giants. Strength, cunning and resilience are the way of the mighty
Hrimthurs.

Among us today, the spirit of the Frost
Giants lives on. Midwestern winter ultra racers show perseverance and
power of a legendary scale. On those who complete the Tuscobia Winter Ultra, Arrowhead Ultra 135 and Actif Epica in one season, we will confer The Order of the Hrimthurs.

The names in the Order will pass into the
realm of legends, a process acknowledged with a special ceremony and
award. Membership in this small but powerful tribe is a lifetime honour
bestowed on incredibly few." - (From www.theorderofthehrimthurs.com)

I had stumbled upon "The Order" a couple years earlier, reading "300 Mile Man" by Phillip Gary Smith.
Weeks earlier I had completed my first winter ultra at Tuscobia and had
won the book. Remember earlier, that bit about how your destiny can
find you? Tuscobia had taken me 24 hours on my fat bike and the thought
of taking on Arrowhead 135 two weeks later and Actif Epica two weeks
after that seemed insane. It was my plan to finish all of them, one year
at a time. So, with that plan in mind I took the leap and signed up for
Arrowhead this year, hoping to finish a race that is legendary for it's
toughness. I was certain it would be the toughest single day test I had
ever put in front of me and indeed it was. Month's earlier, good friend
Chuck Fritz let me know he was going to head back to Tuscobia after
failing to complete it in 2012 on his feet. Asking if I wanted to come
along, I agreed. Actif Epica was not even a consideration. Helen and
Chris Scotch put on a great race and joining my great friend Chuck just
seemed like a fun thing to do. Funny how the universe works. I was
oblivious to the devious dealings my destiny was involved in. The Order
of The Hrimthurs lay in wait.

Chuck
and I sat in the Rice Lake Italian restaurant, minding our own business
when the Scotch clan came crashing in on us. If you see them coming
your way and are not wanting to get talked into the next BIG adventure,
run like hell. "Your signed up for Arrowhead?" Mark Scotch asked,
overhearing Chuck and I chatting. I can't be sure which of them said it
first..."You gotta do Actif then. You gotta go for The Order of The
Hrimthurs." The rest of the conversation was a blur. "S#*T, they're
right", I thought to myself. If I could make it through Arrowhead, I had
to give it a shot. The deceptive gods of destiny had done it. They had
hidden in the shadows, putting "coincidence" after coincidence in front
of me before revealing their true intention.

Paul
and I arrived at the "fish shack" after a 2.5 mile stretch into the
wind that I am not skilled enough with words to describe. Darkness was
upon us, temperatures were rapidly falling and the wind had found
renewed strength. I started in on the bag of chips, Paul on the cold
pizza slice.It was a full on feeding frenzy. Moments earlier, fully in
the battle there was no thought of hunger. Now, at this "oasis" in the
arctic, our bodies screamed for food and fluids. I handed the water
bottle, filled with warm water to Paul. He chugged half of the 24
ounces, handed it back to me, I killed it and asked the kind men to
"fill 'er again". I have no idea how they understood me as I made the
request with a mouthful of chips, pizza and chocolates. Some stayed in
my mouth, some did not. Paul and I knocked off two more water bottles
before stopping, fearing we would both puke. We were both down to the
most primal version of ourselves. I can only imagine what the two locals
who had stopped by to investigate must have thought. Their questions of
what, where, how far, and why all remained unanswered as we attacked
the provisions laid before us. We apologized for our lack of decency and
departed just minutes after arriving. It doesn't get any more basic
than these moments. Eat, Drink, Move. 20 miles to go. It seemed we were
home free. Paul was a strong rider and was on his third Actif. He knew
the course by memory it seemed.

The
ice tossed the bike right out from under me. Landing awkwardly, I
jumped up quickly, in a bit of a panic. A loud noise came from the back
wheel as I tried to get back on the bike. The cold, the effort of the
day, the jolt of the crash all made detecting the source of the noise
difficult. I try to slow down in these moments, rushing just magnifies
the problem. Paul's blinky was drifting off into the darkness, unaware
of my demise. I'd fallen onto my back derailleur somehow and bent it
into the spokes. In my haste I grabbed it, jerking it out of the spokes.
Luckily, I didn't snap the damn thing off.Back on the bike, I saw
Paul's headlight headed back my way. Quality dude. He didn't have to do
that. There is a brother/sisterhood out here though. We all know what's
at stake. With each event like this I do, I fall more in love with these
people. They are the toughest of the tough, and the kindest of the
kind. The God's of the North had just reminded me, that here, in this
place, at every turn, danger lurks.

Entering
the city limits of Winnipeg was a huge relief. The building and homes
provided relief from the wind and if the forecasted snow storm were to
hit, we would be safe from the visibility issues those still out in the
open would face. Among them, my friend Chuck who had accompanied me
here to attempt the 125 km run course. All who come to this race are to
be commended, those that do so on foot are on course for as long as 25
hours. (Chuck would tame the beast with just 16 minutes to spare. It was
one of the coolest things I have ever witnessed.)

Paul
led the way off the bridge and down onto the frozen river. We had made
our final turn. The river was divided into two trails, one for skaters,
one for bikers, walker, and runners. A very light snow began to fall as
Paul and I made our way to the finish. The Winnipeg skyline was now in
view. I recognized a couple of the unique structures near our hotel and
realized the finish was now a certainty. To our left, skaters gracefully
approached, some holding hands, enjoying a romantic evening, others
passing a hockey puck between teammates. This was the best of what
winter offers. Paul was just a few bike lengths in front of me. We had
not exchanged any words since dropping onto the river. Finishing an
event like The Actif Epica, The Arrowhead 135 or The Tuscobia 150 change
you. It is a very private moment, a time for reflection. I thought of
relatives no longer here. I thanked them for never giving up on me when
there was no reason to believe. I hoped they could see what i was
seeing, feel what I was feeling. It was their finish as much as it was
mine. I thought of all the friends back home. So many times the past 5
weeks, I had reached through my SPOT tracker, asking for their help,
knowing they watched on the other end. They were my strength when I had
none left.

There
are no big crowds welcoming you home at these races. There are no big
cash payouts. If you are really fast, you may race on a free bike pimped
out with the best gear or perhaps, like me, your local bike shop gives
you a nice discount because you are in there all the time getting your
bike fixed. No money, no big crowds, no bright lights. No, this is for
something so much more. These races offer you the chance to find
yourself, the very best of yourself. They peel away layer after layer of
BS until you stand bare before the challenge. If you can find the will
to push, pedal, ski, run or even crawl into the unknown, the ultimate
prize awaits.

Paul
and I shared a picture and a hug. There were maybe ten people in the
finishing area. Sitting alone with my thoughts, someone tapped me on the
shoulder. A bit startled, I quickly looked up. "Welcome to the Order",
the gentleman said. He smiled, shook my hand, turned and walked slowly
away.

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

It has been said that some create their destiny. For others, it seems, their destiny finds them, regardless of how many times they veer far from the path. It has certainly been the latter for me. Many times I have read about the great adventurers and how as a child they were mesmerized by the adventures of Ernest Shackleton, Amelia Earhart or Hillary (not Clinton, the mountain climbing one). They knew, after reading the stories and being mesmerized by the pictures, that they would , like their new found adventuring heroes, lead a life filled with adventure and exploration.
If indeed our destiny calls to us from somewhere beyond our perception, I was very adept at ignoring it. Looking back, there were a few signs. Uncle Bill was a retired WWII fighter pilot and I would sit at his feet for hours listening to his dog fight stories. Eventually shot down, he would share tales about prisoner of war camps in a far off country and his eventual liberation by General Patton. He never claimed the journeys to be his own, but rather those of "Big Jerry". Maybe it made the stories a bit easier for him to tell using a different character name.

Growing up in the city, I was always curious as my Uncle Bob would head out long before sunrise, occasionally returning with a deer that had fallen to his homemade longbow. He would speak of sunrises, the sound of the forest and the almost magical quality the outdoors would provide. His library was full of books about great hunters and the big game they pursued in far away places. During the summer of my 12th birthday, Uncle Bob, for some reason invited this "punk kid" who he feared would never amount to much, to the boundary waters to join him and his sun for a week of hiking, canoeing and fishing. The crystal clear waters of the north, the violent tug of a northern pike on my line and the stories of the animals that called this place home, captivated me. It was the first adventure of my life.

Returning back to Iowa, the memories of the north faded fast and the "punk kid", still trying to reconcile his parents recent divorce, was back on the road to nowhere. There was no sense of destiny, no direction, nothing. Fifteen years later, two drunk drivings and too many bad choices to recount, I found myself in an alcohol rehab center. This was the last Y in the road. Get clean or die. It was an incredibly tough journey to get back to square one. I had traveled hundreds of marathons from myself. The goal was simple, but to get there I had to remain focused on the moment. One Day, one hour, one step at a time. These lessons would later serve me well. What I couldn't know then and am just grasping now is that the seeds of
adventure that lie within us all, once watered, never die. They may lay dormant, waiting for the light, but they never disappear. The second adventure of my life was underway. I had embarked on the never ending journey of self exploration.

The frozen landscape of The Actif Epica surrounded me and the 100 mile journey I was on provided ample time for random bouts of joy, pain, doubt, exhilaration and reflection.

35 years ago my Uncle had brought me to the boundary waters of Canada, opening my eyes to the wild places and now, here I was racing my Specialized Fat
Bike in the middle of what seemed an Arctic desert. I owe him and all
that have helped encourage, inspire and educate me a huge debt of
gratitude. It is one of the many beauties of these races. Seemingly
everyone here has had someone or many some one's help them get here and
because of that, are very willing to help all those who dare step into
the unknown.

The Actif Epica is held each February, finishing in Winnipeg, Canada. Temperatures regularly drop well below zero and the wind howls across the frozen plains. Wind chills can be -30, -40 or even lower. Make a mistake in this race and frostbite, hypothermia or worse is a real possibility. Weeks earlier, at the Tuscobia 150 temperatures plummeted to -15. Two weeks later would be The Arrowhead 135. Many, planning to do the Arrowhead 135 were unable to do so. I know of two people who went to the hospital with frostbit eyes. Another racer spent three days in a burn trauma unit and will never be able to race in the cold again. Thankfully, he was able to keep all ten of his toes. No disrespect to ultras held in the spring, summer or fall, but make a mistake here and ten minutes later you may have lost feeling in your fingers, nose or ears...forever.

The starting pace was fast, but not unbearable. I made the decision to stay with the leaders as long as possible. Navigation was a real concern here and staying close to a local or two would help minimize the chance of getting lost. I can't be sure, but even armed with cue sheets and GPS, I'd bet you nearly every one stopped a few times to make sure they were still on track. The bank clock in St. Malo (the start town) read -25 as we bussed into town. The wind was out of the south,which would serve us well later in the race, but the first 20k or so we were going right into the teeth of it. -20, -30, -45, whatever the hell the windchill was, it was damn cold. Everything had to be covered. Everything. Goggles were a must. Eyes wouldn't last ten minutes exposed to these elements. What I love about these races is that one mistake, one oversight can end a race. The environment is SO harsh. The payoff is that if your systems are all as they should be, you get to play in the wildest of places. My goggles have never given me a bit of trouble, even in the -15 temperatures at Tuscobia. Yet, with each passing mile, they were freezing, slowly reducing my field of view. Eventually, I couldn't see a thing. I'd stop, spit into the glasses, clear a small slit and pedal my ass off into the wind to get the back wheel of the leaders, just in time to stop and do it again, and again until the effort became too much and I was forced to ride on solo. Once the turnaround was made, maybe 15 miles or so into the race, with the brutal wind at my back, I could get rid of the goggles. The first checkpoint was back at the hockey arena where we started. Once inside, investigating the goggles, I realized the magnetic lens was not completely popped in. The small slit along the top had allowed the freezing wind to find its way into the goggles and freeze them from the inside out. Like I said, one mistake, one small oversight in these races can end you. I left check point one all systems go. The dilemma had cost me many places in the race but I was here for more than just an attempt a high placing...

This concludes part 1 of 2 - "Actif Epica and The Order of The Hrimthurs". I hope you enjoyed it and will follow the blog.

Tomorrow night - Part Two of "Actif Epica and The Order of The Hrimthurs."

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